


These Moving Parts Inside of Me

by Patcho418



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26516095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patcho418/pseuds/Patcho418
Summary: Yang inhales a sharp breath and withdraws her hand, pain stinging between her knuckles. Carefully, she lifts her hand and inspects it, expecting scraped skin and seeping red; she finds only steel.A defeated sigh escapes her mouth.Steel.It stretches across her hand and wraps around her fingers, every joint a ball of metal and every bone replaced by rods and wire. It stretches up her forearm, stopping just before her elbow and continuing past it. She can feel it clasped to the skin of her neck, ending along her jaw, the taste of iron always somewhat present on her tongue.A fic about grief and reconciliation based off of somefanart by CoffeePhilter.Fic Playlist
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long, Ilia Amitola/Blake Belladonna, Lie Ren/Nora Valkyrie, Pyrrha Nikos/Weiss Schnee
Comments: 13
Kudos: 35





	1. Lost hope in a faraway place

_Bam!_

Metal comes into hard contact with rough grey tarp, and Yang grimaces at the blow; holding back is a lot harder these days. Her fist retracts quickly as the joint of her elbow clicks back into place. She rolls her shoulder and brings her fist forward again—

_Bam!_

This strike pushes the punching bag further, and Yang can only snarl when she sees the large indent in the Atlas Military insignia printed onto vinyl, big and obnoxious and a reminder of where she’s stuck.

_Bam!_

Atlas is cold against her body—she’s always cold these days—and the little heat that working out provides doesn’t do enough to chase away the bite of winter, nor the wash of sweat that freezes to her forehead. It certainly doesn’t do wonders for the scars pulling against her dry skin.

_Bam!_

Yang inhales a sharp breath and withdraws her hand, pain stinging between her knuckles. Carefully, she lifts her hand and inspects it, expecting scraped skin and seeping red; she finds only steel.

A defeated sigh escapes her mouth. _Steel_. It stretches across her hand and wraps around her fingers, every joint a ball of metal and every bone replaced by rods and wire. It stretches up her forearm, stopping just before her elbow and continuing past it. She can feel it clasped to the skin of her neck, ending along her jaw, the taste of iron always somewhat present on her tongue.

The joints of her arms whir mechanically, a reminder of the cords and silicone that burn under what little skin hasn’t been torn and severed, running along the last few tendons and muscles that aren’t artificial, that don’t hum and spark and click. She curls her fingers inwards, watching the way her digits glide along the smooth balls of her knuckles.

Every part in its place, working as each one should.

She lets her arm slide back down to her side as the rattle of chain subdues in the air but not in her ears. Yang can’t exactly say she resents or regrets the choice she made—it was do or die, and Yang still has so much to do. This really was the better option, and she lays awake every night reminding herself of that.

It still hurts.

The ringing finally subsides and Yang approaches the punching bag again, steadying it for another round of a vicious cybernetic beatdown.

* * *

_“Are you two ready for this?” asked Glynda over the earpiece._

_“Yeah, more than ready,” Yang muttered with feigned enthusiasm._

_Snow bit at Yang’s skin and she cursed the cold beneath her breath. While Ruby and Weiss had gotten away with a partners mission just outside of Vale, her and Blake had been sent far north to the fringes of the kingdom, just close enough to Atlas to receive its fair share of subzero temperatures and miserable winters._

_After four years of training, her and her team were finally nearing the end of their days at Beacon. She’d performed fantastically in the solo examination, and of course being one of Beacon’s highest-graded student teams meant that they would pass the group exam without trouble. The partner’s exam would be easy, or at least she told herself, since working with Blake was anything but a problem._

_It was incredible how in-synch they were, picking up on each others’ thoughts as if they were their own, following up on attack setups and finishing moves. On the battlefield, the two of them were a force to be reckoned with, the burning fury of the sun and the silent danger of the shadows._

_Off the battlefield, there was no one Yang loved more. She was drawn to Blake, to the mystery that she was, a book clasped with locks, the keys to which had been tossed away years ago. And yet, somehow, Yang still managed to get to see Blake’s mysteries, read every page and uncover things Blake had always feared would chase her away should she discover them. Yang knew she never would, never could, and offered her own self up to her; something for Blake to anchor herself to, something for her to have as her own. Yang was so lucky that Blake had accepted._

_She was taken back to the present situation with the squeeze of a mitted hand against her shoulder, and she turned around to meet the gentle and supportive smile of her partner. Yang reached up and curled her own fingers around Blake’s, returning the smile with sincerity, ignoring the snow and wind that whipped against their faces._

_“We’ve got this, Yang!” Blake said over the howling winds, the effect of her statement only slightly dulled by her volume._

_Still, Yang’s grip tightened around Blake’s fingers, and a soft blush spread across her cheeks. “When I’ve got the best girlfriend in all of Remnant to back me up? Of course we have this.”_

_“I’m pretty sure that’s me,” Blake retorted with a raised brow._

_“You’re right! You are the best girlfriend in all of Remnant!”_

_Static filled both of their ears, and the two of them split before falling back into their airship seats._

_“Students, while relationships aren’t prohibited at Beacon, I do ask that you control your flirting while on this partner’s examination,” Glynda warned before adding in a low voice: “For me, please.”_

_Blake scrambled to press the button on her earpiece, and Yang could barely contain the giggle in her throat. “Sorry, Professor Goodwitch! We’ll keep things professional.” She punctuated this with a quick jab at Yang’s shoulder, but couldn’t stifle a quick snort of laughter._

_“Very well,” Glynda continued. “You’ll be dropped off at the site, where you’ve been arranged to meet with the train’s conductor. You’ll do as he asks, but expect to be facing Grimm along your journey. Surely nothing the two of you can’t handle.”_

_Yang’s smile broke across her face. “Absolutely! I wouldn’t have it any other way!”_

_The airship made a hasty drop-off close to an old-looking train station at the foot of one of the north’s many mountains; snow piled high on the roof, threatening to cave the old structure in, as deadly-looking icicles dangled dangerously close to the doors, causing Yang to shudder at the thought of one of those impaling her._

_A quick scan of the area showed few workers close by, and those that were present and decked-out in heavy winter gear seemed tired and laboured._

_“Who are we looking for?” Yang wondered as she stepped off of the airship._

_Blake stopped several steps in front of Yang and bit her lower lip, thinking momentarily. “Probably some old crank with white hair bossing other people around.”_

_Yang scoffed. “And how do you know they’re gonna be an old crank?”_

_“Aren’t they always?” Blake teased over her shoulder, and Yang couldn’t exactly disagree. Blake always knew these things, after all._

* * *

“Miss Xiao Long.”

 _Great._ Yang knows that chilly voice all too well, and she lets her fist fall after one final swing at the punching bag, her arms suddenly heavy.

“Ma’am,” she replies, the temperature of her voice matching the room’s. She can’t hide her disdain, not very well at least, but she can at least keep her back turned until—

 _Clack, clack, clack,_ and Yang huffs at the pretentious sound those heels make as they cross from the door, echoing through the open gym, and finally stopping beside her.

Winter Schnee looks her up and down, that ever-present frown frozen onto her pale face. “I figured I’d find you here,” she says, her voice direct and precise, as if every word in her vocabulary is cleverly calculated, every sentence structured for her.

Yang surrenders—for now, at least—and turns to face Winter. “Where else would I be?”

“There are plenty of places you could be, Miss Xiao Long.” Winter’s icy gaze snaps momentarily to the punching bag as she watches it wobble back and forth, resting finally inches from her face. “But I know when you need to temper your flame.”

“Enough with the poetry,” Yang groans. “Besides, I don’t think you actually know me as well as you think you do.”

“No, probably not. But I don’t think you hide as much as you pretend to.”

Yang feels a shiver run down her spine and she stretches back slightly, feeling the rivets clicking back into place with gentle pops. She can’t exactly say Winter is her favourite Schnee she’s met; when the likes of Jacques and Whitley are always around, always present in Atlas, she tends to forget that Winter isn’t exactly a ray of sunshine either, but the reminders are frequent.

She’s cold, for one, and Yang’s always hated the cold. Winters in Patch always drowned her in feelings of isolation, the cold cutting her off from the world outside while snow drew all sound out of the air. Winter Schnee is like the many winters Yang has lived through: she enters a room, and all eyes are on her, all noise is cut off. She stands still, static, stiff like ice, and her eyes are not a welcome blue like the clear skies of summer, but daring and foreboding.

(Yang thinks back to similar blue eyes, how those ones, beyond all expectations, could manage to hold so much warmth compared to Winter’s.)

“Nonetheless, I didn’t come here to discuss how well we know each other,” Winter continues, her attention returning to Yang, and Yang can’t ignore the way her own gaze goes unmet, can’t ignore the way Winter’s eyes fix themselves to the metal of Yang’s arms, can’t ignore that pesky little voice in her head desperately begging her to use the ‘my eyes are up here!’ line she used to torment her friends with.

She decides against it, as much as she wants to break Winter’s unofficial ‘no humour allowed’ rule she so heavily enforces. Her fists close at her sides as she braces against the chill of her voice. “Yeah? I’m guessing it’s finally time you put me to use, right?”

“Yes,” Winter confirms, though her voice lingers on hesitation. Yang pauses to wonder about how she hangs onto the word as if suddenly the machine in her brain can’t form sentences anymore.

Yang almost laughs. Almost. “Well? Spit it out.”

“I…I don’t often enjoy being the bearer of bad news, Miss Xiao Long—”

“Really? I’d have thought it’d be your favourite hobby,” Yang snarks.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t be so flippant if you knew why I was here!” Winter barks, and for a moment there’s that spark in her eyes Yang recognizes a bit too well, a ghost of better days taunting her. Yang wants to linger on it, watch that spark grow to a comforting flame as she’s seen so many times, but it dies far too quickly in the icy blue of Winter’s eyes. “The General,” she begins, more calmly this time, “has denied your request for Specialist ranking.”

Heat spreads in Yang’s eyes, coursing through the skin of her cheeks and through every strand of golden hair on her head. She’s able to stop the flames from erupting from her scalp, but that fire is persistent in her throat, and when she speaks her words are wreathed in flame. “Ironwood said no?”

Cold stands against hot, and Winter’s icy exterior protects her from the way Yang burns angrily. “Yes,” she confirms.

The frost in her voice melts when it reaches Yang’s ears. “What the fuck?! Why? I’ve got Huntress training, and I’ve already proven to him I’m basically an exemplary soldier!”

“Quite the contrary,” Winter hisses back. “You’re stubborn, reckless, and disobedient. Plus, you never did technically complete your training at Beacon.”

It’s the matter-of-fact tone of her voice that forces Yang to finally ignite as she sends her fist into the punching bag beside her. It’s no match for the impact of a fully-trained, fully-pissed-off, cybernetically-enhanced Yang Xiao Long: it flies off of its chain, tearing small chunks of cement from the ceiling, and when it impacts with the wall at the back of the room it practically shatters apart, sand spilling all over the gym floor.

Yang pants angrily, her breath hot and her teeth clenched hard together. That red, burning and livid that she’s always on the verge of these days, completely overtakes her irises.  
And Winter’s presence is still disturbingly chilly. “Case and point.”

“So Iron-Idiot just wants to waste one of his most valuable assets and trillions of Lien because he thinks I’m, what? Too angry? Not some member of his lame, uniform army of tin idiots?” Gods, she wishes it wasn’t so _easy_ to get angry. She wishes that the fuming rage crackling inside her all the damn time could just rest, and of course it won’t. Not when she’s missing so damn much.

“General _Ironwood_ has made up his mind, and it would do you well to show some respect towards the man that saved your life. If it weren’t for him, you could still be stuck in a stasis tank in Vale stuck on life support.” Winter straightens her back when she says this, takes the most subtle of steps back afterwards.

And Winter was wise to step back, because Yang’s eyes glow an even harsher red. “Low. Fucking. Blow.”

“I’ve said what I needed to say,” Winter says with the faintest hint of a stutter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to prepare the rest of my squad for our next mission.” She’s quick to turn on her heel, and that damn clack, clack, clack of her shoes does nothing to soften Yang’s tense nerves. Winter stops at the door and adds: “I suggest you prepare soon, too.”

Yang ignores her.

* * *

_The mission really was as simple as Glynda had told them before they’d headed out. Not exactly what Yang had been expecting of a partner examination in her senior year at Beacon—though she would have expected more action, probably a bit of danger to hers and Blake’s lives, enough alone time to flirt with her girlfriend before the party really started. That kind of thing._

_Still, there was something to be said for simple: given that RWBY had already proven themselves countless times to the headmaster herself as well as the rest of Beacon’s renowned faculty, ‘simple’ meant that they expected Blake and Yang to be successful, that they would be receiving full marks for their mission, and that they were already considered model Huntresses and that the exam was a mandatory formality._

_Blake and Yang found the train’s conductor—of course he was an old crank with white hair—and had immediately been put to work monitoring the cargo loading. He’d informed them that their mission was to provide security for the train’s voyage through the mountains, which was apparently something they needed further north, and that would include not only keeping an eye out for Grimm further along the tracks but also ensuring that none of the crew would be stealing from the cargo (apparently also another common occurrence further north)._

_Other than that, they had no responsibilities for three days._

_Yang found Blake pacing in one of the cars, a book in her hand, and Yang smiled at how typical it was for her and marveled at just how beautiful she looked while reading. She managed a quick peek at the cover, noting the plain leather the book was wrapped in, and guessed it was either a textbook meant for the road or something she thought the likes of which needed to be hidden from others, which only served to pique Yang’s interest that much more._

_It was loud enough on the train, and Yang had been taught some stealth moves from Blake in previous years, so she quietly opened the door to the car and hovered in the doorway for just a moment, making sure Blake wouldn’t notice her. Her partner remained still, eyes glued to the page in interest, and Yang found it the perfect moment to—_

_“Hi Yang.”_

_A chuckle escaped Yang’s mouth; how did she ever think she could sneak around Blake? “Hey, babe!” she called as if she hadn’t just been caught trying to be stealthy._

_Blake lowered her book and shot Yang a flippant smirk. “Next time, don’t open the door so slowly. Oh, and try and step where the floor isn’t hollow.”_

_“Yes, ma’am!” Yang said with a nod and a comically exaggerated salute._

_“And don’t call me ‘ma’am’.”_

_“You usually like it when I call you that.” Yang stepped forward, drawn to Blake by the stubborn blush on her cheeks and the tantalizing idea of riling her up._

_“We’re on a mission, Yang,” Blake countered as plainly as she could, despite the spark of interest that flickered in her eyes. “We have to focus.”_

_“Says the woman I just caught reading.”_

_“Says the woman I just caught trying to sneak up on me.”_

_Yang smiled; Blake was always so quick. She’d never met anyone who could keep up with, and sometimes outdo, her own wit. Maybe it was the way her eyes always seemed so sultry when she felt playful, a blush burning under her eyes as they scanned across Yang’s face, usually coming to rest on her lips. Maybe it was her quiet delivery punctuated by the subtlest of tics in her otherwise neutral expression, and how her low voice seemed to wrap every word so precisely, every syllable dripping with an enticing heat. Whatever it was, it was without a doubt the hottest thing Yang ever got to witness._

_Still, her partner was right. Mission. Focus. It sucked, but it would be this one mission before the team exam, and then they would be graduating. Fully-trained Huntresses with dangerous missions to undertake, countless new places to explore and learn about, sprawling futures to think about…and Yang knew Blake wanted theirs to be together._

_Of course Yang could wait and focus on the mission. It wouldn’t stop her from some light flirting, just nothing that would distract them._

_“So what were you reading, anyways?” she asked sincerely._

_Blake hummed. “Something Ren lent me about marine wildlife.” She straightened her back and a clever look flashed across her face. “Apparently dolphins sometimes gift each other sponges to show their affection.”_

_Yang shrugged innocently. “If that’s you asking for sponges, then sorry, babe. I don’t have any.”_

_“Well,” Blake replied quickly, mock disappointment falling on her face, “that was the only thing I wanted out of this relationship. I want to break up.”_

_Dammit, Blake always made it so hard not to flirt! Yang bit down on her lip, trying to ignore her less appropriate thoughts. “Damn,” she purred teasingly. “There must be some way to win you back.” There. That would surely be light enough flirting to not distract them._

_Blake’s face turned neutral again as she sighed reluctantly. “Well, for one you could focus on our mission.”_

_Yang rolled her eyes and dug into her jacket pocket for her scroll, sliding it out and displaying the screen to Blake. “I checked the cameras further up five minutes ago, and there aren’t any Grimm around. Plus, practically every crew member on this train is bored to shit.” Then, with a knowing look in her eyes, she added cheekily: “I think some of them might be trying to hook up, honestly.”_

_If anything seemed to pique Blake’s interest and shake her out of her focus, this was it. “Really now?” Blake posed with feigned interest. “That wouldn’t happen to be us, now would it?”_

_“Not unless you want to,” Yang replied warmly, and flirting with Blake was just too simple._

_A pleased smile stretched across Blake’s lips and she stepped forward to take Yang’s hands in her own; without their mitts, Blake’s skin was cold against Yang’s, and yet the heat running through her fingers kept her from withdrawing. Of course, having Blake’s hands in her own, fingers wrapped around hers protectively didn’t hurt, either._

_“You’re lucky I love you,” Blake admitted softly as she stroked the cold skin of Yang’s thumbs with her own._

_The rhythm of Yang’s heart picked up, and smiling was never more comfortable than when she heard those words from Blake’s mouth. Even here, with rails rattling beneath their feet, with wind howling around them and frost biting at their skin, Yang could find herself melting into Blake’s touch, could lose herself in those serene words she clung to like a prayer, devoted herself to like a mantra._

_If Blake was with her, Yang could never feel more whole._

_“Yeah. I am lucky.”_

_The mission was simple, and so was falling in love with Blake. Their lips met like they had done countless times before, and yet it always stretched time further, the universe giving them what they needed. Time. Space. Eternity. They could have it all. Each new kiss was a new point in their lives, bringing them closer together and setting another piece in place for their future. A foundation here, and another brick there; they’d shared enough to know they wouldn’t spend time, space, and eternity without each other. It was impossible for them not to._

_Yang broke away for the briefest of moments to catch her breath and smile against Blake’s mouth; happiness was so simple in Blake’s arms. So uncomplicated, so natural, and even that moment away from her lips felt like choking. When she kissed her again, it was deep, aching, yearning, her tongue sliding along Blake’s teeth as her heart raced, an insistent ‘more’ calling in her chest._

_Then it was Blake’s turn to pull away, and Yang nearly followed (she would follow Blake anywhere) until noticing the expression on her face. Pensive. Concerned. Focused._

_“What is it?” Yang asked, dreading having to ready Ember Celica on her wrists. She watched Blake’s eyes shift from one side of the car to the other, her head tilting and her ears twitching to catch the sound of—_

_“Yang, duck!”_

* * *

Missions to Mantle are frequent and depressing, and Yang abhors every single one she gets sent on. She doesn’t exactly know the politics of how it all happened—no one ever bothered explaining it to her—other than anti-Atlas sentiments had grown louder in recent months from the disenfranchised Faunus living in Atlas’ afterthought slum and that it had been drawing constant streams of Grimm to the kingdom.

Of course, Yang isn’t completely oblivious, nor is she an idiot. There are things she does know, word that makes its way around the barracks from soldiers who underestimate her augmented hearing or just forget that the burly blonde cyborg from Vale is one of them and therefore not included in the conversation.

Most of these Grimm being drawn in are Beowolves, Sabers, and other small-fry that apparently Atlas needs to send squads of soldiers at a time to deal with. Yang has to scoff at that; she’s faced Beowolves and Ursa and monsters half of these soldiers likely haven’t heard of yet alone fought. Beacon wasn’t exactly a safe haven for its students, and training was generally dangerous, so Yang’s been through it all, made it out stronger on the other side and as intact as she can be. Surely, these soldiers would have the same might as four young women with ridiculously powerful weapons and personal powers.

(They definitely don’t.)

Another thing she knows is that the anti-Atlas sentiment is because of the SDC, and the unfortunate stance that the kingdom has taken on the matter. There’s rumours going around that Weiss Schnee is working alongside Faunus representatives to abolish Faunus labour laws, redistribute wealth to Mantle, and enhance the lives of those so cruelly affected by the SDC’s business practices. Yang couldn’t be any prouder of how far Weiss has come, and it only makes her more angry that she’s so close to one of her closest friends and can’t even speak to her.

One last thing she knows: she fucking hates Atlesian soldiers.

They move through the streets, guns pointed haphazardly as if ready to shoot anything that moves—more than once in the past it’s been the point of dispute, then the subject of cases, and many of those in power could hardly care less. Hence why Yang has almost threatened everyone in her squad on numerous occasions for their unabashed, and overtly disgusting, harassment of Mantle’s citizens.

“Focus, Yang. Focus on the mission,” Yang murmurs to herself, a soft mantra for herself only; the words are familiar on her tongue, as is the taste of honey and the scent of lilac in her nose.

She exits the dropship, weapon gripped tightly in her hands. Yang’s come to recognize Mantle as decrepit, unfinished, shed of any glory it may have once had, but today it’s desolate and silent. Snow piles onto empty buildings and obscures the concrete beneath their feet like a thick blanket. The air is bitter and frosty around them, winter mixing with oil and smog.  
Yang still hates how the snow quiets the world around her, the crunching of her squad’s boots against the white surface the only sound she can latch onto. It’s orderly, the way they move in rhythm with one-another, and Yang hates that too.

Winter steps off the airship just before it takes off again into the sky, high above the anticipated carnage of the impending skirmish (at least Yang doesn’t have to hear the clack of her heels in the thick snow).

“Soldiers!” she commands, and all heads snap to her. “We’ll be following the usual routine. Squads One and Two will sweep through the streets for Grimm and civilians, while Squads Three and Four secure a perimeter.”

There’s a murmur from the soldiers, one that irritates Yang to her core. Words are thrown around—harsh, coarse words—and Yang wants nothing more than to stop them, to grab them out of the air and crush them in her fists. She knows she can’t exactly react, however: not only will she draw Grimm out with negative outbursts, she’ll definitely find herself further and further on Winter’s bad side. It hurts, but by now Yang’s used to the hurt.

From the look on her face, Winter might seem disapproving of the chatter, and a stern glare at her soldiers shuts them all right up. “If you’re all going to be making remarks like that then you may as well throw yourselves to the Grimm.”

Finally. Something Yang can respect about her, if only a little bit. 

“Now, unless anyone has anything meaningful to say, you had all better get moving,” Winter continues barking her commands. “Move out!”

Yang’s the last soldier to turn on her heels, partially out of personal disdain and partially out of wanting to see any of the soldiers around her resume their murmuring as if turning their backs is enough to make Winter not hear them; thankfully, they all keep their mouths shut.

She’s slowly joined by several other Atlas soldiers all sporting similar armour to her, goofy helmets she refuses to wear resting on their heads. (Sometimes she thinks they look like giant flies, just ready to be swatted. Non-lethally, obviously, but far too often they deserve the sentiment.)

Their feet crunch in unison in the snow, soft and careful as they round corners, weapons raised and ready to fire upon Grimm; only Yang keeps hers low, and she knows that if it comes to a fight she doesn’t necessarily need it, anyways. The dull light of aging streetlamps barely provides enough light for them to weave through alleys and peer into buildings, and the darkness is stifling in the winter, the sun lost behind clouds of black.

The soldiers remain silent, which Yang is more than thankful for, as they scan the streets. She notices the lack of civilians, and after five minutes of empty shops and backstreets her mind shuffles along a spectrum of ideas, starting with ‘what if it’s a false alarm’ before moving to ‘what if it was taken care of before we got here’. She tries not to think about ‘what if it’s too late’.

Five minutes of silence, tense and foreboding, before someone finally decides to be sickeningly bold. “Damn Faunus,” one of the soldiers mutters quietly, probably hoping Yang can’t hear her. “If it weren’t for them we wouldn’t be down here.”

“If it weren’t for people like you, neither would they,” Yang shoots back, refusing to let that red seep into her eyes again (she’s always so _red_ these days).

There’s an uncomfortable pause before another soldier chimes in. “How can you say that? Wasn’t it the Faunus that blew you up?”

Yang tenses and feels a splitting crimson pain wash over what little skin remains on her body, feels electric sparks snap at her veins, tastes iron stronger than before as it trickles between her teeth and into her throat.

She takes a sharp breath in, and it’s all smog again in her lungs. “No.” She hates that it’s not exactly the truth, but she’d rather not give them any more ammunition.

Yang snaps to attention, her thoughts now on the sound only she can hear: a growling, guttural and sickening, sounding from a nearby alleyway. She raises her weapon and her squad follows, understanding the situation immediately as they tense and move inward towards each other.

The growl is joined by several more of its kind, and by now the squad must be able to hear them, their fingers hovering on the trigger, ready to gun down the looming Grimm. Yang grits her teeth, feels the grind of metal joints in her jaw, suppresses the red in her eyes. Right now, good formation with her allies might be the only thing to help them, and as much as she’s killed Grimm before, she also knows that they’re not foes to be taken lightly, especially without proper teamwork.

“Two o’clock!” shouts one of the soldiers, and all weapons point to the pack of Sabres clawing their way out of an alley several meters away, gnashing their curved teeth with deep growls and scarlet eyes glowing under the night sky.

Yang focuses down the barrel of her weapon, clumsy as it may be, and fires several shots into its front, aiming for the legs of one of the monsters. It yelps in pain as her bullets sink into its shadowy form, the lack of any blood upon impact somehow making them more unsettling than their skeletal faces or blood-stained fangs. The Grimm collapses into the snow and Yang finishes it off with a final few shots to its bony skull before moving onto the next target.

 _Sabres are deceptively fast,_ she remembers hearing once as she aims at another’s front legs; she can’t remember where she’s heard it, but it’s something she has to share with her squad since the rest of them seem to be aiming primarily for the faces of their targets frantically.

She grimaces at their haphazard tactics, wondering to herself for just a moment how ‘Atlas’ best’ are actually kind of miserable fighters, before returning her attention to another Sabre, smaller and frailer than the others, as it lurches forward at the group; two well-placed shots are enough to bring it down, another one to kill it outright.

Yang pulls back for a moment, taking in her surroundings as best she can despite the looming buildings casting darkness over them, accentuated by the thick dark clouds and the lack of functioning streetlamps. It’s not exactly the most ideal battlefield, not by a long shot, but she has to thank the gods that she’s not up against something too challenging.

And despite it all, Yang has seen the worst of battle. She knows how quickly one moment can change so much, how the smallest change in setting, the quickest moment of genius from adversaries, hell even a fraction of a moment of hesitation can sear and crush and destroy.

“Focus, Yang,” she repeats again, and this time she focuses in on the sound of screaming.

Her attention snaps away at the sharp sound to see one of the soldiers in her squad drop his weapon beside him as a Sabre pounces overtop of him, gnashing and snarling as he desperately attempts to keep its jaws far from his face.

Yang clenches her jaw, her expression contorting as she sees the Grimm’s claws digging viciously into the soldier’s sides as bullets uselessly sink into its inky flesh.

And Yang knows she shouldn’t jump in again.

She springs forward, the metal of her foot heavy against the soft snow, red edging in her mind and in her eyes, and her fist holds steady, inches from the soldier’s face as the monster’s teeth close heavily around it.

* * *

_Yang ducked out of the way just in time to avoid being pelted with bullets. She slid gracelessly along the grating of the floor, the trellis metal tearing into her knees (nothing her Aura wouldn’t heal quickly). Coming to a stop near the door, Yang glanced up quickly to see her partner elegantly evading the gunfire whizzing through the cable car._

_“Who—?” Yang shouted before coming under a hail of more bullets. They bounced off of her Aura almost harmlessly, flashes of yellow erupting from the thin layer above her skin, but she still winced at how they stung upon impact._

_Blake stopped at the other end of the cabin, her eyes darting around through the storm of bullets. “No, it can’t be! What are they doing here?”_

_“Blake, who is it?” Yang already burned at what the answer could be, anxious energy pumping through her veins with every frightened heartbeat._

_“It’s the White Fang!”_

_Yang’s heart stopped in that moment, and she was sure part of that was because of how Blake’s face paled the moment the words left her mouth. She knew Blake to be brave, braver than she often credited herself for, and there were few things that would shake her, few things she wouldn’t accept as a challenge with dedication on her face._

_Blake looked terrified._

_The ring of metal drew Yang’s attention to the sides of the cabin car, which had been riddled with small holes and were now being sawed apart with some kind of heated beam. Four of these beams sliced cleanly through the thick metal around the cabin, and Yang knew with this momentary relief from being under fire they could move freely through the car and assess their next move._

_Yang launched herself at Blake, the rush of battle mixed with a pounding panic in her chest bringing her to her partner almost instantly._

_“It has to be them. They’re the only ones who’d raid a corporate train.” Blake was already explaining, already apologizing, her gaze fixed to Gambol Shroud as she readied it for combat._

_Yang shook her head, more out of worry than denial. “Could it maybe be bandits?”_

_“No.” Blake’s eyes shifted up to Yang’s, amber frozen behind tears. “These are their tactics. I would know.”_

_Yang reached out for Blake’s hand, running her fingers softly along her knuckles. “You don’t have to explain yourself, babe. Right now, we have to get them off this train and ensure the crew’s safety.”_

_Blake kept her gaze on Yang for a moment, eyes darting between her own, before nodding coolly. “You’re right. We need to find where else they’re attacking and what they’re after.”_

_Yang smiled proudly, then readied Ember Celica with a dangerous smirk. “But first, this!” With a furious yell, she raised her fists to align with the beams sawing through the metal, firing off concussive shots that rattled the metal. With each blast against the train’s interior, one beam would disappear, until finally the car was safe from intrusion._

_She brought her fists close to her chest and allowed herself a cocky smile and a wink at Blake, who rolled her eyes._

_“Let’s go!” Blake ordered, and Yang obliged confidently, following her lead as they rushed through to the next car._

_Moving through the train and finding the crew wasn’t a time-consuming challenge, and the several encounters with the White Fang they had were over quickly. Yang had to wonder exactly how well-trained their opponents were, with the initial surprise attack being the only impressive tactic used against the Huntresses._

_Blake was rattled, and of course she would be: Yang saw it in the way her swings connected sloppily or the extra bit of rush in her steps (the way her ears frantically twitched from side to side was an obvious indicator, too). Blake had told her about that day in the Forever Fall forest, about how she escaped her previous life and how she worried to the day about always looking over her shoulder in fear that it would catch up to her._

_This would be the day, it seemed, and Yang felt it like a gut-punch just how right Blake was to be terrified._

_But they were Huntresses—or at least Huntresses-in-training—and fear would have to wait its turn. Blake knew that. Yang knew that. And rushing through each car, rounding up the crew to make sure they were safe while taking out any opponents along the way, they didn’t give a second thought to how long it would delay._

_The two of them managed to group the crew together in one of the more secure cars protected by high metal crates. Yang quickly searched around the car for anything the crew could defend themselves with, picking out various blunt metal objects and tools that would be better than nothing in this case while Blake stood close to the group._

_“Have you seen the conductor?” she inquired, her eyes never falling on them as they scanned the room uncertainly._

_“Not since the attack began,” one of the crew said. His worried gaze shifted to the door on the opposite end of the car. “If…if they got him, we’re in trouble!”_

_“Not quite,” Yang stated, marching towards them with weapons in her arms. “We’ll get you all to safety.” She moved among the crew, handing each of them crowbars and wrenches that they all eyed curiously. “Or, at the very least, you’ll be able to defend yourselves until we’re done kicking them all off this train.”_

_Blake nodded, though her fear persisted in her expression. “We’ll go and find him. You all stay here until we come back.”_

_Her and Yang shared a quick glance, knowing exactly what the other was thinking as they sprang for the door leading to the conductor’s car._

_“What if they get in here, though?” cried out another crewmember, to which Yang simply put her fists together and imitated swinging a weapon with a loud ‘wham!’ before slipping through the doorway._

_They made their way quickly through the rest of the cars, albeit silently, and Yang couldn’t help but notice the lack of White Fang in this area of the train. Maybe they were all further back and still making their way up? That had to be it._

_She also couldn’t help but notice the extremely determined look painted across Blake’s face, eyes narrow and lips pulled into a frown. Of course Yang wanted to bring it up, wanted to let Blake know that none of this was on her (and she could tell Blake was fighting back those thoughts, as well)._

_Yang didn’t get the chance, but she knew it wouldn’t have mattered anyways: when Blake was focused, determined, doing her job, she did it without distraction, without holding back or hesitating. It wasn’t like when they’d first showed up at Beacon. Back then, they were beginners with their own hang-ups and drawbacks. Now, they were almost Huntresses, their skills sharpened, and they had a job to do._

_They came to a halt in front of the conductor’s cabin door. Blake quickly inspected the door as she fidgeted with a pouch on her belt, but quickly pulled her hand away as her ear twitched._

_“I think I hear something on the other side,” she mentioned and leaned closer, tilting her ear up against the door. Yang followed suit, leaning against the heavy metal and listening attentively for—_

_Voices._

_Yang could hear voices on the other side of the door; one of them unfamiliar but filled with a searing rage, and the other gruff and afraid which she recognized quickly belonged to the conductor. She pressed her ear closer to try and listen to their conversation more closely, fingers tightening against her palm as she readied herself to fight._

_“You didn’t tell me you were bringing a whole attack squad!” the conductor cried. Yang felt her fists stiffen at the realisation that he clearly knew something about the attack, had known all along, and she growled at how he could put his own crew in danger like this._

_“And you didn’t tell me that there would be Huntresses on this train,” the other voice snarled back dangerously, “so I guess we were both misinformed.”_

_Yang peered back at Blake, whose eyes widened as she removed her face from against the door. Gods, how Yang wished she knew how to help, how to subdue Blake’s fears and give her the same courage Blake always instilled in her._

_There was a crash of metal on the other side of the door and Yang drew her attention back to the encounter, listening intently. “Th-they’re only students!” the conductor stammered. “I didn’t think it was important!”_

_“That was your first mistake. And it will be your last.”_

_And then Yang heard the sound of a blade being drawn. It was unmistakable how metal scraped against metal and she could practically hear the sparks being flung to the ground as the blade was unsheathed. She felt Blake tense beside her and she readied her weapons, pressing her fist against the door—it’d be now or never if they were to rescue the conductor, traitor or not._

_Ember Celica’s powerful recoil kicked back against her fist when she fired, the force enough to rip the door from its hinges and send it hurtling forward into the car. The conductor’s wrinkled face contorted into panic as the slab of metal raced towards him, but he managed to avoid the impact by sidestepping it before running past the Huntresses; the black-clothed man beside him wasn’t so lucky, however, as the metal door slammed right into his side, knocking him back against the train’s console._

_Yang cocked her gauntlets and resumed her combat stance, knees bent and fists curled. Blake quickly slid in beside her, her eyes desperately scanning the car before falling on the debris from Yang’s attack, then trailing up to the man bent over the console only inches from the door, then widening in horror as a single name escaped in a gasp._

__“Adam.” __

_It was like summoning a monster or phantom, the way Blake speaking his name immediately drew his attention. Red trickled in thin streams down his cheeks, obscured by a bone-white mask bearing scarlet marks, and the way his teeth bared resembled a snarl more than a grin. He slowly peeled himself from the console, and Yang could see how the crimson of his blade matched the marks on his mask, the red of his hair, the blood on his face._

_“Blake,” he sneered, his voice little more than a whisper before breaking into a short cackle that made Yang’s jaw clench in agitation. “Now this has to be more than a coincidence, don’t you think?”_

_Blake took a step forward, her weapons held in front of her, and Yang matched her. She felt sparks sizzle against her scalp, anger and fury towards her partner’s nightmare swirling alongside a fiery pride she felt at her girlfriend’s courage. Yang had heard enough about Adam to know how dangerous he was, how much Blake was haunted by her time under his tutelage (Yang knew it was more than that, and her fury crackled at the notion that this monster would manipulate someone so young and impressionable). She knew how he strived for power, fed off of spite, and she knew that Blake was braver than anyone she knew for doing what she did, long ago and in this moment._

_Maybe it wasn’t coincidence that she would encounter Adam here and now. Yang never really knew much about fate and chance and destiny, but what she did know was that ghosts were tenacious, and she didn’t care for that shit at all._

_Another step forward. “If you’re here to get your ass kicked, I’d say the timing’s convenient.”_

_Adam growled as he sheathed his weapon; Yang knew better than to lower hers, especially with the way he hunched as if ready to charge. Still, his attention never strayed from Blake._

_“It is convenient, isn’t it,” he growled, “how familiar this all is? Maybe this time it’ll end better.”_

_“And what’s ‘better’? Better for her or for you?” Yang scoffed._

_“You left me,” he began his pathetic lament to Blake, completely disregarding Yang as his voice dripped with false misery masking an intense vitriol._

_“Yes, I did leave you.” Blake’s voice wavered the moment it broke from her throat, but she herself didn’t. Blake took a step forward, Gambol Shroud held firmly in her grasp, Yang following her as she always had, as she always would. “I left because I knew I could do more good as a Huntress than by attacking humans and hurting innocents!” Then, with a boldness she must have picked up from Yang: “Unless you have another reason for being on this train?”_

_Adam snarled, surrendering a fragment of his ground as he stepped back in surprise at the question. His posture relaxed momentarily, then he took on an undeservedly proud stance. “I’m delivering justice for the Faunus, as I’ve always done.”_

_“This isn’t justice, Adam,” Blake retorted, stepping forward, taking what he’d surrendered to her. “It’s never been justice! It’s fear and violence!”_

_His posture fell again into that monstrous fury he’d tried obscuring behind pride and arrogance. “Oh Blake—” and Yang hated how Blake’s name fell off his tongue “—you know we have to start somewhere.”_

_Adam leapt forward with crimson both trailing behind him and pulling ahead of him, his blade arcing over his head as he released a guttural roar. Blake sprung backwards—she’d always been quick—and narrowly dodged the sweep of his blade from slicing into her calves._

_Yang felt fire sizzle under her skin and in her soul as her yellow aura cascaded over her, forming around her weapons and filling the air with the faint scent of citrus. She took her place—one step, then another—before skidding to a halt right beside Adam. Her arm shot forward to deliver a jab to his shoulder, something she would always do to test the strength of her opponent before any follow-up attacks would be made._

_He gave, if only slightly, by bringing his leg back to brace himself against the strike. A sneer crept across his features as he turned to Yang and brought his sword again down on her, only to have his attack blocked by her gauntlet; his blade glowed faintly as it connected with the metal of her weapon, humming dangerously. Quickly, she removed herself from his strike and jabbed again, her fist connecting with his forearm with a satisfying ‘thump’._

_Her opponent barely had time to react to the strike as Blake had already re-entered the skirmish, her own blade connecting with his back and bouncing off the thin scarlet surface coating his body (and Yang reeled at the weak odour of wilting vegetation when Blake recoiled)._

_Adam snarled, red seeping between his teeth and staining the corner of his mouth. Another strike from his blade—clumsy and forceful, but dangerous nonetheless—reached for Blake, who again sprung backwards. Yang took the opportunity to launch herself forward, bringing her fist into his unguarded chest: one, two, three quick jabs before she finished the set off with a practiced uppercut connecting with his jaw._

_There was that smell again, and Yang had to force herself to fight through the stench he emitted. Worse was how she had to fight through knowing maybe why his aura was so drained, the scent of flora wilting away into rot. She knew already who he was, what he was, and she’d have to save any other questions for later when they’d beaten him and the White Fang back._

_Another streak of scarlet, barely missing Yang by inches, followed closely by a buzz of energy. She heard Blake call out her name, saw Adam grit his teeth against someone else’s name in her voice, felt her muscles stiffen against the heat of his attack and her own semblance bubbling in her veins._

_She returned into the fray with a grunt of her own, her fist digging into his stomach and retracting quickly to make room for a second punch. They just had to wear him down, just had to keep up the attack until his aura broke—,_

_A sudden jolt of stinging pain sent her skidding backwards, reaching frantically for something to hold onto as the pain spread up through her chest, down her arms, into the tip of every curled finger. She grit her teeth against the sensation as she tried to get her blood to stop boiling so red hot._

_‘Not yet!’ she told herself, tensing against the rising urge to lash out with her semblance._

_Yang spared a quick glance up as she calmed herself; she’d been trained to expect quick skirmishes, flashes of a fight over in a few rapid attacks. The fact that Adam was holding out so stubbornly against them set her blood to boil again, if only for a moment. He was trained and dangerous, none of his strikes landing with non-lethality in mind, and he seemed to have enough control over his aura to not be easily taken down by two Huntresses; that wouldn’t stop them from trying._

_Blake was still engaged, fighting back against his onslaught of slices with as much strength as it must’ve been taking her not to freeze, not to flee, not to back down against what must’ve been her worst nightmare come true._

_But she wasn’t just reacting to every attack from Adam and from her own mind; she was actively fighting. She was determined in every swing and strike, her brow knitted in concentration as she ducked between near-blows, her voice carrying with each perfectly timed used of her semblance to distract Adam momentarily while she repositioned herself._

_Blake wasn’t just fighting back._

_Blake was fighting_ him. __

_Yang shook her thoughts away, though a small smile persisted on her face; she could fall in love with Blake’s courage more after the fight. She braced herself against the steel wall of the cabin, cursing the confined arena they found themselves in as she propelled herself back into the fray, leading with a powerfully wound-up punch appearing from right behind one of Blake’s shadow clones._

_Adam grunted, and she felt a crackling upon impact; his aura showed no signs of having shattered, but the increased potency of that putrid smell indicated the devastating power of her blow; the small smirk from Blake behind him confirmed it._

_“Two on one isn’t exactly honourable for a pair of Huntresses, now is it?” he sneered, setting himself into a defensive stance to block several more of Yang’s quick jabs and Blake’s practiced slices._

_“When have you ever cared about ‘fair’?” Blake snapped back._

_He let out a wicked chuckle. “You should know more than anyone that I was never treated fairly. I thought you under—”_

_Blake was quick to shut him up with a kick to the jaw as she flipped backwards towards the console. She steadied herself as she came out of the maneuver and readied her weapon in its pistol mode; Yang wasted no time in following up the attack, careful to keep Blake in her periphery as she flanked their opponent._

_Four years. Four years of them fighting and training together is what taught Yang to pick up on Blake’s ideas and plans, what made them so quick and efficient together with combined attacks and clever flanking strategies. Blake had once compared it to dancing, and Yang couldn’t disagree, not after every dance they had shared was just as blissfully wordless, their movements synchronized to each-other like a heartbeat, a lifeline._

_Yang twisted her foot into place, winding up her strike as Adam recovered from the blow; she noticed how his aura, now a thinner veil of red, clung to his form, unrestrained and desperate not to flicker out. Any moment now and they’d have him._

_The walls of the cabin were confining, none of them allowed for much maneuvering room; Yang felt Ember Celica weighing her wrists down, the fire of her semblance crackling like awaiting sparks while sweat stung at her eyes; Blake’s amber eyes stilled as she took her position, ready for Yang’s next move as if she already knew what it would be._

_Adam growled, roared, and charged towards Blake._

_Just as they’d anticipated._

_His sword came down in an arc over his head, threatening to slice right through Blake’s shoulder with the force of the battle before this moment, and when it did its slice was clean and perfect—too perfect, of course. He paused and looked at the damage dealt by his blow, and by the time he realised his oversight it was already too late for him._

_The shadow clone froze around his sword, trapping in it a thick coat of crystalline ice. Blake quickly darted around him, stretching the ribbon from Gambol Shroud around his arm and prying the hilt from his grasp as she pulled his arm behind his back. Adam gave with the strong tug and stumbled backwards in surprise, reaching in vain to reclaim the weapon just out of his reach._

_Now it was Yang’s turn: as Blake finished her quick circuit around him, she let go of her own weapon, the ribbon suddenly loosening around his arm as her blade fell to the ground. Still, Adam had yet to regain his balance, and with his wobbling from left to right Yang already understood now was the moment to bring him down._

_Her fist sunk into his chest, and the immediate crunch of bone, burst of red light, and sudden overpowering reek of rotten plants indicated to her their victory just as much as their opponent crashing through ice and into the glass window behind him, shattering it enough that his head and shoulders dangled dangerously outside of the train. The frigid winds of Vale’s northernmost mountains blasted their way into the cabin, rushing through Yang’s hair and biting at her cheeks; a quick activation of her semblance was enough to keep her warm against the temperatures._

_Yang turned to Blake, who had begun to shield herself from the weather, her face contorted into a bitter frown. She took a small step towards her to share her aura’s heat, which Blake seemed thankful enough for; still, her eyes never left the man now clambering pathetically from the train’s control panel through cracked bits of glass, several shards sticking into him._

_“Give up, Adam,” Blake barked in the tone of a proud leader, a proud warrior (and Yang smiled the smile of a proud girlfriend). “Call off your troops. You’re done.”_

_Adam fell to his knees, but his expression betrayed no signs of surrender. “You can’t tell me what to do. You never had that power.”_

_“I don’t think you’re in a position to be bargaining!” Yang snapped back, her fingers curling inwards into her palms._

_He paused, his lips pursed while blood seeped down his chin. And then a grating laugh broke through, at first slow and weighted but quickly morphing into a more confident chuckle as he rose to his feet. Yang quickly took another threatening step forward; she wasn’t going to let him get away!_

_“It’s not a bargain,” he warned maliciously. Then, his face fell, almost sad were it not for the bone mask obscuring his eyes (and the knowledge that Yang shouldn’t fall for his empty sympathy). “I knew it’d have to end this way, Blake. I just hoped I might be able to save you from yourself.”_

_Yang’s eyes darted to Blake quickly: while her eyes remained fixed on Adam as he rose, her ears flicked curiously and her brow furrowed. Yang studied her for a moment, slowly recognizing the look of familiarity, then dread, dawning on Blake’s face._

_The moment Adam reached for his weapon, Blake and Yang were already firing frantically on him, bullets ricocheting against the metal of the cabin and the crimson of his blade. He adeptly dodged and deflected their shots before leaping backwards out of the train’s front window; Yang immediately paused, her fingers curling suspiciously as her mind wondered just what he was doing._

_He hovered midair for a moment, his free hand reaching behind him—no, he was hanging onto something, and it didn’t take Yang too long to notice the ladder behind him and the buzz of an engine, nor did it take too long for Blake to raise her weapon again to continue firing on him. Bullets whizzed past him, and the ones that connected with his sword caused it to glow that same threatening faint red._

_Yang raised her fist to aim. One shot to the arm would stop him from escaping for sure! The wind rushed against her fiery skin, gnawing away her focus and drying her eyes. She just had to focus on the shot, she couldn’t let him get away. Blake deserved better. Better than to have him out there, still a danger to her, to everyone she loved. She couldn’t stand to think of Blake losing someone so important to this monster._

_And then, a wave of red energy, sizzling and shrieking with the metal of the train and the rush of wind and anger of battle. It shot menacingly towards Blake, and so did Yang, her legs moving before her mind could even react to the attack._

_Her scalp burned with the fire that had been coursing in her veins since the skirmish began, setting her hair alight and blasting heat through the cabin. Whatever this attack was, it looked deadly, and she could make it deadlier. She had to!_

_Red reflected in Blake’s amber eyes, a column of devastation racing to her. Yang couldn’t allow Adam to hurt her again—ever! Yang felt the familiar shift of aura in her eyes, knowing how it would match the overpowering red in Blake’s. She had to do this!_

_She could swear she heard Blake’s voice as she rushed towards her—she was screaming her name._

_Yang thought it would be the last thing she heard before she died; the overpowering ring of static, however, was all that filled her ears for that final second._

* * *

Yang feels the familiar burn of her semblance creep into her wiry veins, and it’s enough to push back the Sabre from the soldier whimpering beneath her. Her teeth grit against the force closing around and digging into her metal flesh, but she stubbornly pushes through it, continuing to push against the monster’s force until it’s far from its prey.

With a guttural scream and more anger than she wants, she rips her arm out from the Sabre’s dripping jaw, swinging it upwards and sending it flying backwards; she rushes back into the fray, unholstering her sidearm and emptying two shots into the side of its head with confident finality.

She pulls away and takes a look at the scene around her: it’s calming down, if only a bit, and the rest of the soldiers are dispatching of the Grimm with albeit a little more difficulty than she’d had. The streets carry the scent of rapidly decaying beasts as black smoke rises to meet the smog above the skirmish, and the sound of bulletfire slows from a frenzy to an unsettlingly steady pulse.

The feeling of metal fingers against the weapon’s grip is still alien to her, the cold of snow seeping between the seams of her boots foreign against steel plates and copper wires, the taste of iron lingering where it should’ve faded years ago.

Yang sighs against the overwhelming sensations and quickly holsters her weapon as she moves towards the soldier still lying in the snow, her hand stretched towards him.


	2. A Bitter Ice Corrodes the Gold

_“Yang!”_

_The word, the name, the lifeline, burst from Blake’s lips, desperate to reach with her words as Adam’s attack rapidly approached. Yang was already rushing towards her, and Blake would never be able to forget that expression on her face: worry stretching her mouth into a grimace while her eyes shifted anxiously between furious red and tearful lilac, both swirling together as they fought off tears._

_It was the last time Blake got to see that perfect shade of purple in her eyes._

_She felt the excess of the strike wash over her, sparking energy tumbling in ember-like flakes onto her aura and burning brief holes where they landed. Blake knew all too well the fury behind these strikes, felt the rage unhindered with every tiny morsel of pain._

_But the strike wasn’t meant for her, and that was something she realised all too late._

_Yang._

_The word hung in her mouth, dry, unspoken as much as she wanted to scream it, as much as she hoped she could form a shield around her and close any wounds with it. The winds screamed around her as they filled the cabin, scraping against her now cold skin, any feeling in her body gone at the sight of the woman she loved on the ground, crimson streaming across the gold of her combat outfit._

_Yang._

_Lying still as if frozen by the frigid northern air; even her wild mane seemed stiff against the metal floor, stained with flecks of red that she had to believe were only the remnants of Adam’s attack and not the spatter of blood from an unseen wound. These flecks persisted on her jacket and in small droplets on her ear and neck where normally the only spots she’d see were the delicate freckles dancing across her skin._

_Blake stepped closer again, her head light and heavy at the same time, her throat clenching around a scream she wanted to think would be unwarranted. She wanted to think that she wouldn’t need to scream, that what she was seeing was only an exaggeration of reality—a hallucination brought on by the stress of such an unforeseen encounter, though she understood with each blink she dared the reality of what she was seeing wasn’t exaggerated at all, and that scream only grew tighter in her throat._

_Yang._

_Blake could only manage to squeak out the beginning of her name as she took her final step towards her. Her tongue rolled cautiously around the ‘y’, scared that disturbing the air around her might disturb the moment suspended in time, might cause reality to catch up to them, might cause crimson to keep seeping out of the space where her arms should have been and from the deep gash splitting across her jaw and up across her cheek—_

_“Yang!” And it’s all Blake could scream as the universe cruelly shattered around her._

* * *

Blake wakes up how she’s been waking up for the last two years: with swollen eyes and tears staining her pillow.

Grey streaks through the blinds of her room, threatening yet another downpour over Menagerie like there’s been over the past few weeks. She feels lingering exhaustion tugging at the skin under her eyes, pulling into dark bags that she tries to rub back into place with the heel of her palm. Slow circuits ease the tension around her eyes, if only momentarily, before she wipes the corners of her eyes clear and slides her legs over the side of the bed.

Her room is bare, blank, void of anything past the necessary. Where most people might put photos of friends and family atop their dresser, Blake only has a clock, a radio, and a jewelry box that hasn’t been touched in almost a month. Where most people might decorate their desk with souvenir pencil cups and carefully-potted bonsais, Blake only has several stacks of papers neatly placed beside her pen case. Where most people might put a splash of their favourite colour on their wall, their door, over even their bedsheets, Blake only has plain walls. A regular bamboo door. Neutral sheets.

Ilia’s been trying to talk her into adding something _more_ recently. She says she misses the purple that Blake had expertly hidden around her room when she was younger, little strips of paint her father had failed to find or had simply ignored, and the border of her extra-tall mirror that she’d always put photos of friends and family against with multicoloured tacks. Blake always tells her it’s too much work with everything else going on; what she doesn’t tell Ilia is that she can’t stand the thought of colour, the sight of colour, the vibrancy that causes her migraines and heartache.

She peers over her shoulder, slowly (it’s the only way her body moves now), and sees Ilia still against the sheets, the heavy duvet pulled just up to her shoulders as her deep red hair spreads loose across the bed. Her expression is gentle, soft, her lips softly parted as she sleeps the morning away, and Blake wishes she could mirror that expression. It’s been too long since she’s felt like she can rest peacefully, and even now when she should be able to she just finds it more painful to even try.

But she’s moving on—or she’s trying, at least—and that’s got to count for something.

This is what moving on feels like: painful, but necessary.

Blake reaches across to the other end of the bed and pulls on the nightgown that had been so hastily discarded last night. She slides off of the bed, her feet hesitantly hovering above the cold wood for a split second before making contact and sending a faint shiver through her spine.

She’s quick to check her Scroll for the time, at least; _8:13_ , still a little early to wake Ilia up and less than two hours before her parents are supposed to get back. Maybe it’s the combination of viciously late nights and frustratingly early mornings that makes sleep pull at her eyes and fog her mind so relentlessly, but she can’t help it. She can’t help but hate when she sees it all again in her dreams.

The living room is just as chilly from the unkind morning, with rain looming just over the ocean and a draft rattling against wood and uncovered skin. It’s been a few days since her parents left for Mistral (and a year since she lied to herself about trying to find her own place in Menagerie), and of course they probably wouldn’t want to return from their business trip with their home in the state that it is and their daughter in the state that she is.

Both are easily fixed problems. Neither are problems she wants to deal with right now.

Instead she moves to fix the problem of her stomach being empty, making her way to the kitchen to at least try and get something into her system even if eating in the morning makes her want to throw up. It used to be a worse problem before, when ignoring how her stomach roared caused her days to trudge on like a grueling torment but ignoring it was so much better than having to stomach anything, only to feel sick later from even a small snack.

Of course, Blake’s moving on now. She doesn’t have to think about ‘before’ and what that means. She doesn’t have to imagine ‘after’ when she’s already living it.

(And she doesn’t have to acknowledge that ‘after’ means something already has happened.)

She grabs the kettle atop the stove and brings it under the faucet to fill before setting it back to boil; tea’s always been a good way to start the morning, even when the mornings are cold and grey, and she chooses something with citrus to help add warmth and colour to an otherwise dreary day. She picks a banana from the bunch on the counter and begins to peel it, doing her best to ignore how pale her fingers look against bright yellow.

The tea bag sits dry in her cup as she nibbles on the fruit, slowly as her stomach churns against the feeling of being disturbed after it’s been empty for long enough now. At least her parents and Ilia would probably be delighted to see her eating something, but her parents are still away and Ilia is still asleep and the thought of not having to do this for anyone causes her stomach to fight back for a moment—a moment long enough to force her to put the banana back down on the counter beside her cup. She’ll try again in a little bit.

Citrus persists now in the mixed aroma of the room, swirling against the smell of petrichor wafting from the window just barely ajar above the stove. Her hand pauses at the counter, and she can’t really help but notice just how pale her skin is and just how thin her fingers are, her veins dark and prominent like wires running along a frame.

The scent becomes stronger as she stares, fixated on how alien her hands look on their own, focused on the cold tingling in her fingertips, fixated on the space between her knuckles and how far apart it seems with wood splitting them further and further away with nothing to bridge them or to warm them.

Now citrus is all she smells, and yellow is all she sees, and her hand is on its own with no support hovering just inches from the cup and surrounded by empty space. There’s a part missing, a part that should be there as she feels the urge to close her fingers around that space and delicately brush knuckles that aren’t there and feel skin against skin and heat against heat.

“Blake!”

She turns, and the shrill ring of a screaming kettle pierces her ears instantly, causing her to leap away from the stove. The steam blows into the air in an angry stream and the metal shrieks and groans and cries like splitting crimson until a hand quickly takes the handle and moves it off the burner.

Ilia steps beside Blake and sighs as the boiling water calms. Her brows are furrowed in concern and the spots on her face shimmer between dark pink and pale blue, shifting once more to their natural colour when she finally pulls her hand away from the handle and turns her attention to Blake.

“Are you okay?” she asks, like she’s asked many times before with Blake’s answer always being the same.

“Yeah,” Blake relinquishes through ragged breaths. “I just lost focus for a moment, I guess.”

Ilia sighs, her cheeks turning pale blue again, and slowly places her hands on Blake’s arms; Blake doesn’t recoil, but she can’t help but notice how Ilia’s fingers don’t feel there, don’t feel physical, and leaning into the touch is something she has to remind herself to do.

Her thumbs stroke gentle lines against Blake’s skin; it’s only been a month, and Blake should know to be patient with her feelings, but she only shrinks further when she’s with Ilia and hopes that the cracks in her pale skin don’t shatter like porcelain and that Ilia doesn’t see just how she’s feeling. It’s not an act; she’s been told time and time again to move on, to get better, and so she makes sure to try and feel genuine. She doesn’t try to mirror Ilia’s small smile, but smiling on her own is certainly harder, and the pink flush of Ilia’s cheeks aren’t a colour she can feel or reciprocate.

Maybe she’s just not trying hard enough. Maybe the universe is keeping her locked away in a tower of black starlight and constricting shadow, dampening her senses, controlling the beats of her heart and the heat of her skin. What she does know is at least how to get close to breaking free from the tower, even if it’s not fully (it may just be enough to convince the universe that she’s okay).

Blake slides her hands into Ilia’s, curling her fingers around her knuckles and tries to ignore the space between them. She instantly recognizes the quick flash of relief in Ilia’s expression as it sparks in her eyes and pulls at the corners of her lips.

“Thanks, Ilia.” She leans forward and plants a delicate kiss against Ilia’s cheek, calls it moving on in her head, rests her lips there and expects to feel the warmth of a blush against them; she’s disappointed by cold despite the pink that spreads there.

“It’s nothing,” Ilia replies gently as she rests her own cheek against Blake’s. “I’m always going to be here for you.” Then, she slowly pulls away, her eyes darting around the room as Blake remembers just how much of a mess she’s left this place in. “You go sit down, Blake. I’ll get started on cleaning this place up.”

Blake smirks as she attempts to hide the faintest chuckle. It’s not feeling that’s hard, but reminding herself how to feel is, and right now she feels like she doesn’t have to hide a sense of happiness, even if it’s small.

“Maybe you should get dressed first,” Blake teases. “My parents will be back this morning, and I don’t think they’d want to see you walking around their house in your underwear.”

Ilia giggles as she turns her gaze back to Blake. “But you don’t mind it, do you?”

Blake looks her over: olive skin dotted with specks that shift pink under her gaze, and sporty grey briefs and a matching sports bra leaving little else to the imagination (not that Blake hasn’t become familiar with her body over the past few nights). Ilia’s stomach tenses and Blake can make out the faint outline of her abs flecked with the occasional small scar from her own days in the White Fang, days Ilia quickly put behind her after realising what she was fighting against and what she wasn’t truly fighting for.

They’re days Ilia is moving on from; they’re all working away from days like those now.

A smile crosses her lips and she feels the cracked porcelain of her skin fill as shadows tug her beneath and a blush paints across her cheeks. “You wouldn’t be here if I did.”

“Good to know I’m not getting kicked out anytime soon,” Ilia teases.

“I don’t think I’d want to do that anyways.” Then, in a more matter-of-fact tone: “Besides, I’m sure my parents would love to have you around. Mom’s always liked you.”

“Oh yeah?” A devilish smirk creeps across her face and Blake feels her body slide against hers, her hands linking behind her neck as she lazily hangs against her. A flirty magenta sparkles in her eyes—it’s more pink than red, and ultimately Blake’s thankful for that distinction. “Good to know my reputation’s good. Think it’ll make telling them about us any easier?”

Us.

Blake nearly recoils at the word, choked like she’s swallowed a stone and it’s ripping right through the back of her throat. She feels it like a weight in her stomach, pulling down, heavy, unrelenting, crushing her chest as it tightens around her and pushes her down along with it.

She’s quick to anchor herself against the force of her fears, quickly pushing back against crimson racing against her and a name hanging on the fringe of her mind, torn apart by years of screaming it; as much as she doesn’t want to think about it, _that’s_ ‘us’ to Blake. And she has to move away from it.

She has to move away from ‘us’.

She has to move towards Ilia.

Blake dips her mouth to Ilia’s, takes her lips against her own, presses the skin of her thighs and her arms against hers before her hands find stability on the counter behind them. Ilia’s quick to melt into the kiss as her fingers separate just barely and curl against the back of her neck just below her hair; Blake’s just glad that the crimson rushing at her is retreating and the scratchy voice in her mind is hushing.

And she calls it moving on.

(Moving on means that there’s something that you’re trying to get away from, and Blake can’t think enough of the name to want to get away from it.)

When she feels secure again, Blake breaks from the kiss and averts her eyes from Ilia’s tender stare wreathed in fluttering magenta. “Sucks that we have to get dressed, huh?”

Blake sighs gently against Ilia’s forehead. “Unless you wanna lose brownie points from my mom, we kinda have to.”

Ilia nods, smiles, and gives Blake another kiss, this one quick but fervent, as she slides out of her hold and over towards Blake’s room. Blake watches her reach the door and smirks as she offers her one more longing look before heading in, one that only makes Blake’s heart sting more than it should.

 _‘Moving on’_ , she reminds herself as she turns her attention back to her cup of tea leaves behind her; she inhales the citrus smell once again as she reaches for the now calm kettle to prepare her breakfast, fruity yellow and orange the only colour she notices against a still-grey pallor to the morning.

(Moving on should feel like coming home; it never did.)

* * *

_Going back home wasn’t what Blake had expected to do after everything, but it was a better option than staying in her Vale apartment. The city was bustling, regularly busy with heavy foot traffic from citizens and tourists and the occasional Huntress or Huntsman passing through. Set within emerald peaks against a wash of azure sky, the city seemed to leave and breathe and call out to the universe, call out to life._

_Somehow Blake missed that memo; she’d never actually ended up decorating her apartment once she’d gotten it, never found the energy or the motivation to see it adorned with colours and shapes and things that matched the energy of the kingdom._

_At least it made it easier for Weiss and Ruby to help her pack her belongings since most of them were still in boxes._

_Weiss watched Ruby with a concerned eye, her lips tugging into a frown. Their former team leader was sizing up several boxes, measuring her arms against them as she hummed pensively to herself before finally bending into a squat and lifting her fingers under the bottom box._

_“Ruby, that’s going to be heavy,” Weiss warned._

_Ruby huffed nonchalantly. “What, these? Nah, I’ve got this! I’ve got biceps of steel!” To emphasize her point, she began to rise carefully as she tipped the boxes towards her, the strain apparent in her expression and in the groaning sound she tried and failed to stifle._

_Weiss rolled her eye and, with a quick flick of her fingers, summoned a black glyph under the bottom box, cause the pile to slide into Ruby as she adjusted to the new weight, or lack thereof it seemed to Blake._

_“Try not to get yourself hurt, Ruby,” Weiss ordered sharply to which Ruby nodded bashfully._

_Once that little ordeal was taken care of, Weiss turned to Blake, and in the moment it took for her to look into her frosty teal eyes she was already starting to feel guilt tugging at her throat and at her eyes._

_She didn’t exactly know what she had to feel guilty about, and yet it was the only thing she’d been expected to feel for months know. People came by with concerned looks, smiled with worry at her as her bones forgot how to hold her body together, fragile like paper mache, and she knew they wanted her to feel that sharp pang of guilt, of regret. It’s all she ever felt, anyways._

_Weiss wore that exact smile. “Well, we’ve packed most of your things,” she began gently, and Blake was only barely able to grasp each word she heard. Weiss’ brow knit with concern. “It’ll be good to move back home, right? Get back to your roots for a bit?”_

_Blake only nodded in response._

_Weiss tucked her lower lip between her teeth, took a firm breath, let some colour return to her face (and Blake could only frown bitterly that she’d been without that colour for too long now)._

_“Well, you’ll always have a couch to stay on should you ever decide to visit. Pyrrha and I would be more than happy to have you.” Her poise became much straighter, that of the new CEO of the SDC rather than that of one of her closest friends. “The company is letting me operate out of Vale now that we’ve expanded out of Atlas, which of course includes our own suite with a guest room.”_

_“Yeah!” Ruby chimed in, appearing boxless in the doorway in a burst of roses. “And dad and I could always set up our guest room if…”_

_She must’ve caught the stern look from Weiss, because her voice immediately trailed off and her parted mouth stretched into a sickeningly friendly smile._

_Bitter._

_It was the feeling you’d get when life was unfair and you held back your anger for the universe._

_It was the feeling you’d get when you were ashamed of wanting your own life to be better than what was being handed to you._

_It was the taste Blake swallowed down to avoid making her friends feel as bad as her and it was the taste that coated her mouth when Weiss and Ruby’s words floated around in her ears._

_CEO of the Schnee Dust Company. Weiss was already making headlines with the massive corporate changes she’d installed; while Atlas wasn’t happy with her decision to put an end to cruel Faunus labour laws with a single stroke of her own, Weiss herself seemed far too proud of the direction her life had taken in the nearly twelve months since she took office, including her impressive track record of of ending archaic business practices, rooting out corruption within her own company and those she did business with, and most recently her engagement to Beacon's star graduate and renowned warrior, Pyrrha Nikos._

_Legendary Huntress. Ruby was going out on mission after mission after mission, following a life of adventure and peril like she’d always dreamed of as a child, as a student, as a fully-fledged Huntress fighting the monsters of Grimm. And more than that, she was living life so fast; somehow it had been hard to track Ruby down to get her to help Blake with moving, and even harder to convince her to let Blake move in the first place. Despite it all, Ruby stayed so optimistic, so cheery and considerate, and those around her loved her immensely, from her oldest friends to the civilians she protected day-to-day._

_Blake sighed; bitter was what she was keeping herself from biting down on. Her friends did deserve happiness, and it hurt that she didn’t get that luxury it seemed. Neither of them got to experience life that way anymore._

_(She didn’t acknowledge that she still thought of them as one even when it was only her; she only knew where the pain came from.)_

_Blake barely smiled, hoping it would be enough to convey at least a moderate amount of gratitude for the offers despite both of them feeling more and more like traps. No, not traps. Lures, and lures she knew she had to sever._

_“Thanks,” she murmured, “but I’m not sure when I’ll be back.” She pressed her lips together, hoping to avoid having to correct ‘when’ to ‘if’._

_Her friends’ faces fell, Ruby’s pout causing that clenching feeling to return around her heart while Weiss’ sterner glower fed the shadows creeping under her skin more reasons to try and turn against the woman they plagued. Blake steeled herself against them, wearing another smile she’d hoped would mask her feelings._

_“I really appreciate the help.”_

_That itself seemed like enough to lift Weiss’ spirits as she stood straight again with a mixture of pride and sincerity in her posture; Ruby, however, remained dour, her head hunched forward as she avoided flashing her silver eyes towards Blake._

_“Blake,” Ruby began in a voice wavering on some frail note, “we’re here for you.”_

_She knew that. She didn’t have to be told that. And yet hearing it again just made that feeling all the more crushing against her chest, that taste all the more potent in her mouth; they couldn’t be there for her, not in the way that she needed. She didn’t blame them—of course she couldn’t blame them!—but sometimes there were just things you needed to do yourself, and sometimes there were things you needed to remove from your life._

_“I know,” she murmured faintly as she stood from the wall, taking in the empty apartment now free of the multiple boxes she’d never bothered to unpack. Three women set against blank walls, and it only seemed fitting to Blake that they be like this._

_Maybe it was time to start fresh. Get out of here with a blank palette with which to try and at least find that colour in life again._

_Bitter was what she was leaving behind; moving on was what she was looking forward to._

_(It would take years to wash the gold from the walls. It would take longer to wash gold from the cracks in her skin.)_

* * *

“Blake!” her father calls as he steps into the doorway, his smile lively and beaming and somehow not bright enough.

“Hi dad,” Blake greets coldly. She barely turns her head towards him—she remembers what he looks like—but tries her best to at least offer her best attempt at a smile (it’s a little shaky, but she’s out of practice). “How was the trip?”

“Dismal,” her mother interjects before her father can even open his mouth, squeezing past her goliath of a husband with two suitcases in hand.

Her father sighs as he makes way for his wife to enter the house and she feels the way his bright smile sags. They’d been sent to meet with the Mistral sect of the White Fang, who in turn were to be meeting with the Mistral council to get support for another meeting with members of the Atlesian council. All in all, it was a lot of meetings that Blake can’t find herself passionate about—not that anyone’s really passionate about a meeting.

Clearly, this had been one her father isn’t passionate about, either.

“As well as it could have gone,” he grumbles. “I’ll fill you in once I’ve had a moment to sit down in peace.”

“Your friend Sun wouldn’t stop talking his ear off until we made it to the docks.” Blake flicks her ears at the name; she hasn’t seen Sun in a while, hasn’t seen so many of her friends off the island. She hopes that maybe he remembers her. She wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.

Ghira, too, seems to react negatively to the name as he stretches his head back in exasperation. “Boy wouldn’t stop talking as if we were old drinking friends. Blabbering about his escapades, this and that. I’d hoped maybe a more professional Huntsmen team would be our liaison.”

“Darling,” Kali begins with a soft voice, rubbing her hand along his arm, “Team SSSN are very reliable and were very good liaisons. After all, few other Huntsmen in Mistral are Faunus.”

There’s a moment where her father hums, considering her words, before letting out another hefty sigh. “I suppose things could always be worse, darling.”

Blake swallows back bitter.

Her father’s eyes quickly fall to her as her mother moves towards their room with their cases, and there’s that look that she’s been faced with endlessly for the past two years. He probably isn’t even sure he’s doing it, but nonetheless his eyes portray that same longing for part of her to return while his smile fills her heart with shame. It’s never coming back, that part of her that’s gone, no matter how much people smile and stare.

She returns the look with one of her own—practiced, shallow, something she wishes were more sincere—as she stands and approaches him. He quickly envelops her in a massive hug that she easily sinks into in the rare moments she doesn’t have to hold up the weight of her guilt with her bones. It feels like collapsing into shadow, her fathers arms holding her in place as her eyes drift closed, and she’d sworn never to go back to the shadows years ago.

Then again, there was never a chance she could ever escape the shadows for good, was there?

“Oh!” It’s her mother’s voice sounding from down the hall, and her father quickly pulls out of the hug out of surprise and curiosity before Blake even has time to regain those supports inside her. Reflexively, she leans into her father’s chest before stabilizing herself on the ground, some semblance of solidity under her bare feet, before pulling away as well to stand on her own.

Kali appears at the other end of the room with a coy smile on her face, and she’s soon joined by Ilia who looks sheepishly at her.

“Well hello, Ilia,” Kali says welcomingly. “You’re here a bit early.”

“She stayed the night,” Blake says before Ilia can open her mouth. Her parents look over at her, their concern apparent and stinging; Ilia joins their stare, though hers holds something else, something apprehensive, and Blake doesn’t know whether or not to be afraid of it. “I had a pretty bad episode a few nights ago, so I called her over. She’s—” and the next part is courtesy of that tiny part of her that knows what kind of state she’s in—“she’s been helping me out the past few days.”

Kali nods gently. Ghira hums pensively. Ilia’s eyes dart between the two of them anxiously. Blake feels her stomach sink into shadows, too, and another piece of her falls away into that inky blackness. She grounds herself against that spark of red gushing through the darkness that crackles under her thin shell, grounds herself further against a grating voice ripping against the walls of her already weakened fortifications.

Admitting she’s not okay is just another thing bringing her closer to that.

The way her parents regard her after her statement does nothing to alleviate the mix of emotions churning inside of her, instead settling it further in her gut. She’s sure her mom must notice, however, from the calm smile she displays as she turns to Ilia.

“Hopefully she didn’t make you sleep on the couch,” she teases, prompting pink to flash quickly in the specks on Ilia’s face and a familiar annoyance to grumble inside Blake.

Ilia looks past Kali and at Blake, and surely she must notice her expression, too, since Blake almost immediately recognizes that expression that’s the same one as earlier that morning when red iron clashed with yellow citrus. Her cheeks go a pale blue, and Blake can hardly stand to look into her eyes anymore, wrought with too much for her to handle all at once.

“It was nothing,” Ilia replies. “I’ve slept on worse.”

Ghira’s laugh is hearty, and it surprises Blake away from him for a brief moment. “Well, you also deserve better. Next time, feel free to take the spare bed in my office.” Then, he approaches her with sincere steps and a gentle smile Blake almost misses. “Thank you, Ilia.”

Kali slips a hand onto her shoulder. “You’re always welcome here.”

Blake sees them together, sees the way Ilia looks past her parents at her with that sadness in her eyes and that worry playing in her frown. Once, she might have seen the splash of purple against the walls around them, colourful and vivid like her childhood with flecks of colour playing along it, and she would’ve felt at home. Now, she only sees an escape, an exit, a light too far down the tunnel she dare not look back through if she wants to avoid red sparks and scratchy voices.

She calls it moving on. It has to be.

“It’s good you’re here either way, Ilia,” Ghira begins anew as he steps away from her. “Once Kali and I have settled, perhaps it’s best we discuss the results of the past few days of meetings.” Then, with a grim headshake: “They’re…less than we were expecting.”

“Less?” Ilia asks, suddenly in the role of a trusted White Fang member.

Ghira grumbles and nods. “Give us a moment to settle. We have a lot to discuss.”

Ilia nods hesitantly and steps aside, allowing for Ghira to move past her and towards his and Kali’s room, Kali following not far behind. It’s strange to Blake how empty it feels now that they’re away—even if they’re just in another room—and how much space is feels like there is between her and Ilia. Even when Ilia moves to her and closes the space between them, being sure to appear far more platonic in case her parents see them. (‘Them’ still isn’t something Blake’s quite used to, and it feels even stranger that it takes a lot of her mind to think of her getting used to it.)

“Are you okay?” Ilia’s eyes are pleading, pale blue and scrutinizing.

“Yeah,” Blake says breathily. “I’m just a little worried. Dad was expecting some good news, especially after the success he had in Mistral.”

“That _we_ had in Mistral, Blake,” Ilia corrects in a shaky voice. “We couldn’t have done a lot of it without you.”

The thought of being important, integral to progress, rattles her. Years ago, she’d passionately fought for equality and justice, from small-scale displays of resilience at Beacon to larger movements held with family and members of pro-Faunus groups across Vale. It had never been a kingdom stifled by tradition and, unlike some of the others, was open to discussion and compromise regarding these issues. And she was there at the forefront of it all, fist raised high in victory at every chance and the shouts of support from her loved ones lifting her.

Now? Now it’s more energy than she even has to lift her own arm. She wants to feel that passion return, she knows she should be fighting for this more than she’s fought for anything in her life. She’d thought moving back to Menagerie to be with her parents, where all of it began for her, would help her find that piece of her that’s still missing.

Crimson pursues her. Shadows pull her down. And there’s that empty hole—she knows that’s where the piece goes—that only needs a spark that has not yet been struck. Whatever burned there before is gone, and the smoke has cleared long ago.

Even thinking that she had a hand in the Mistral rallies and displays and movements feels like a foreign dream to her.

Her parents don’t take too long to unpack and change into a fresh set of clothes, her father in his big purple coat fitting of a political leader. They situate themselves at the table in his office and Ghira’s quick to start pulling out various forms and packages and notes and whatever else from his case; Blake and Ilia soon join, Blake taking her spot across from him and sliding a pair of reading glasses onto the bridge of her nose; she doesn’t acknowledge the endearing look Ilia has as she does so.

Ghira clears his throat. “While the Mistral Council supports the White Fang’s cause, they unfortunately won’t be joining us for our meeting in Atlas. On top of that, they informed us that only a few kingdom representatives would be willing to meet with us, one of which will be from the council.”

Blake frowns; it is a lot less than what her father had been anticipating, especially after it had seemed like Mistral was making strides towards supporting the White Fang.

Something lightly nudges her hand, and it takes her a moment to realise it’s Ilia brushing her knuckles up against hers, her brow knit in concern. Blake mirrors her expression as she attempts to direct her attention back to the meeting, though it’s a bit more difficult when she’s so aware of how Ilia regards her, how her father’s words feel like disjointed letters and sounds and nonsense the second her focus slips.

It comes back right in time for her to understand the last words he says grimly. “…and Weiss Schnee will all be present.”

Weiss.

Her blood freezes, frost creeping under her skin and forming around her bones. She feels her heartrate pick up like she’s being chased, her breath hitching as she runs faster from whatever it is that’s pursuing her.

“Weiss is going to be there?” Blake murmurs.

Ghira nods warmly. “Her help and support has been monumental in the past few months, and it’ll be more than helpful to have someone so well-known in Atlas meeting with us in a public setting. Plus, it saves us a trip to Vale since she'll be there on other business.”

“Not to mention,” Kali continues, “it could be a chance to see an old friend again.”

Blake can’t stop running, can’t find a moment to catch her breath as that nameless pursuer continues after her. She pulls her legs up onto the chair and wraps her hands around them, resting her chin against her knees as her eyes dart from her mother to her father and to Ilia.

Kali’s expression turns sad, and she crosses her hands in front of her on the table. “Of course, you don’t have to. But I think it might be good for you. It’ll only be one meeting, darling.”

It sits there, on her tongue, what Blake wants to say. It’s sour and selfish but she can’t stop to think enough about the words as she tires from the pursuit of that nameless thing coming after her.

“What about Ilia?” she suggests. The words draw Ilia’s attention immediately, her mouth parted as if wanting to say something, but Blake continues. “I mean, you’re from Atlas. You know what the situation there is like.”

Her parents look between each-other thoughtfully as Ilia pulls herself closer to Blake and wraps a hand around hers. Blake sighs, feeling weight against her skin pulling her away from her nameless pursuer (but it doesn’t stop it from calling out to her a final time; why does it sound so sad?).

Ilia’s eyes meet hers, and she can see apprehension in them; Blake fortifies herself against it, pulling herself closer inward. “Are you sure?” Ilia asks. “I mean, you know Weiss a lot better than I do, and I’ve never done this kind of thing on my own.” Then, in a smaller, more vulnerable voice: “I haven’t been back there since…since, well…”

Blake pulls herself further inward, further from Ilia, and pays little mind to the way her expression sinks.

“I’m pretty sure,” she answers lowly, and she’s only ‘pretty’ sure because she can’t bear to let them all know how painful it is to even think about it; she’s moving on, after all.

Before Ilia can speak again, though, Ghira brings a hand up. “We can discuss this another time, if that’ll help. In the meantime, there are some more notes I’d like to go over.”

Blake and Ilia nod and they let the topic fall.

There’s a different timbre between them for the rest of the meeting. Blake can’t put a name to it, but it feels like being chased all over again.

* * *

_Blake could feel that there was a different timbre between them._

_She couldn’t quite put a name to it, but it resonated nonetheless. Of course, it was small, frail, under constant threat of snapping in two, and Blake hadn’t felt resonance in her life for almost two years, so of course a faint ringing in her life, in her heart, was enough to make her question herself even more._

_Across the courtyard, smiling and laughing with some other White Fang members, was Ilia adorned in colourful wreaths and bracelets of tropical flowers brought over from Menagerie. She looked happy, and Blake wondered if she could find happiness again, too._

_Blake wandered back to the bar for another pina colada, the heat of the party burning against her skin as torchlight bathed her in a comfortable orange glow (comfortable because it was just far enough from the wash of gold she tried to wash from her own skin, her own soul). Everyone was here celebrating, and for good reason; the White Fang had helped the Faunus reach another massive milestone in Mistral with their most recent rally in the Kingdom itself being one of the most well-attended, well-covered by local media, well-received by the populace, and well-received by Mistral's leadership, who were already starting to schedule talks to put new laws in place to protect its Faunus citizens._

_Celebration felt right. It felt so foreign to her in the moment, but she knew it had to feel good; she couldn’t feel it, at least not right now. Not when she felt a different pull._

_Her eyes were drawn back to Ilia, and she thought about how her friend had stepped up so admirably at the rally, had taken charge and commanded a passionate voice piercing through all that heard it that day._

_And ever since, Blake felt a different timbre, a pull under her chest, and she ignored the way metal scraped along the walls of her mind like screeching rails and how the strong scent of citrus swam in her head._

_“So, Ilia, huh?”_

_Blake turned to face Sun, who had managed somehow to sneak up on her with a drink in either hand (and his tail wrapping around another). His grin was elastic, his eyes searching, and she knew exactly what he was talking about with how he suggestively raised his eyebrows._

_“Astute observation, Sun,” Blake murmured, turning away from him so he wouldn’t catch the blush that his ‘observation’ had brought on._

_Sun smirked proudly and took a sip from one of his drinks. “Yeah, I’d say it was.” Then, his expression shifted, and his eyes regarded Blake more seriously. “You know, if you like her, you should talk to her.”_

_Bake rolled her eyes and pushed back against the flustered surge that rose in her chest. “Of course I like her, she’s my friend.”_

_“You know what I mean, Blake.”_

_Sun was right, and Blake hated how earnest his words were, how warmly and sincerely he spoke them, how they made figments blend with reality. She looked back over at Ilia, and her heartbeat—momentarily irregular as she laughed and grinned and moved playfully under lamplight against a navy sky—told her everything she thought she’d forgotten. Everything she could’ve sworn she wanted to forget. Everything that had always smelled only of citrus._

_Forgetting was the hard part. That smell was strong, just as the rasping voice in the back of her head was strong, calling out one singular word—one singular name—where dreams became reality, and memory became reality, and where Blake wanted to hide from. Forgetting was moving on, and for almost two years moving on had been the only thing people wanted her to do._

_Blake bit her lip against the blush that was now coming under her skin, too, and figured maybe moving on could be something else._

_Apparently, that would be a sentiment Sun agreed with. He lazily draped an arm around her shoulders and leaned close, his eyes focused on Ilia as well. “You know, you don’t have to feel bad about how you feel. You’re allowed to like her.”_

_“I know, Sun,” Blake grumbled._

_Sun threw his hands up excitedly, nearly spilling his drinks all over the bar behind them. “Then go for it! Gods, Blake, you deserve to have something—scratch that, someone good in your life! Dude, you’ve come so far in just two years, and I think…”_

_Blake turned to him with a pointed glare shielded by glossy tears, and to think about the passage of time stung. But, once again, she couldn’t help but find reason in what he was telling her, and she did think that maybe—just maybe—those stolen glances towards Ilia were all the proof she needed._

_But there was that voice, that sound, that word, that scent, and it was persistent and dangerous and there was no way she could run it from anymore, no way to hide from it either. “Do you really think?” she asked Sun meekly._

_“I do think,” was his warm response. Then, of course, not to dwell on the serious: “I mean, I didn’t ever think I’d have a shot with Nep, but here we are! I must be some kinda love maestro, so definitely take my advice.”_

_Blake held back a small hint of a snicker as she brought her drink again to her lips. “Alright, loverboy,” she teased, and for the first time moving on felt like moving forward._

_“Hey! That’s love maestro to you!” Sun shot back with a laugh._

_“Is this guy bothering you?”_

_Blake blinked, and Ilia was standing there with a nervously cheeky smirk aimed at them. It’d be hard to think the look on her face wasn’t at least a little endearing, and the joke is surprising enough coming from Ilia to warrant a playful giggle from Blake._

_“Like you wouldn’t believe,” she replied from behind her hand, careful to cover the smile forming on her lips (and the blush coming through the cracks in her skin; maybe it was the pina colada taking over, but that warmth wasn’t new to her)._

_Ilia smiled at her, and the flecks on her cheeks flashed pink momentarily. Blake fixated on the colour, entranced for a moment at the implication of it and feeling a fluttering in her stomach. She felt herself move forward, away from the voice, away from the word, away from what she wanted to move on from._

_Finding Ilia was easy, finding even a fractal of solace in her eyes was so easy. It was the adoration, the admiration, the feeling of being loved by someone again, and while Blake didn’t expect she’d ever be able to open up again, she supposed she might have already begun to do so._

_Ilia peered up at her, and then over at Sun with a sheepish expression. “Hopefully I’m not interrupting anything? I was just…hoping to talk to Blake for a moment, if that’s cool.”_

_Sun’s smile beamed. “Of course, it’s more than okay!” He momentarily turned his attention to Blake and, with a playful wink, scooted her even closer to Ilia with his tail. “I gotta get these drinks to Neptune and Scarlet, anyways. You kids have fun!”_

_She tried to hide the blush of embarrassment behind the rim of her cup as Sun walked away; even after so long, it was almost impossible not to get flustered at Sun’s teasing. Her eyes fell to Ilia for a moment, and she saw her looking up at her with that familiar admiration that had been so far before and was now so close, close enough to grasp._

_Blake sipped her drink cautiously, hoping to hide behind the rim of her cup; it had been so long since Blake had been this bashful. “What did you want to talk about, Ilia?”_

_Ilia’s hands linked behind her back, her knees bouncing against each other as her gaze drifted downward. “I, uh…I never really thanked you.”_

_“Thanked me for what?” Blake asked._

_“For everything,” Ilia began, digging the tip of her boot into the torchlit sand. “For getting me out of there, and for helping me get on the right path.”_

_Blake stiffened awkwardly. “You don’t have to thank me for that, Ilia. You’ve always been passionate, and in the end your decision to leave his side was your own.” She braced herself against screeching crimson, pulling her arm around her midsection for comfort. “Gods know it’s not an easy one.”_

_“It wasn’t, but you believed in me, Blake. You believed in me when no one else did,” she said, stepping closer to Blake as fervor grew in her voice. “I wouldn’t be standing here with you today if you didn’t.”_

_Ilia was so close, and a small part of her—an anxious shadow she’d never quite gotten rid of screamed at her to turn and run, to fall back into old, upsettingly comfortable habits. Another part of her, something sizzling and lonely, kept her feet rooted to the sand under her as it told her that maybe Ilia wasn’t close enough._

_Maybe it’d been so long since Blake had been close to someone like this._

_Still, her brow knit together in perplexion. “I’m…I’m not as strong as you think I am, Ilia.”_

_Ilia shook her head, and there was an indiscernible something in the way her eyes stayed with Blake. Blake often had words for so many things, but in that moment she couldn’t tell if it was devotion, indignation, or sadness behind her dark eyes._

_“No, Blake. I think you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for,” she stated. “After everything you’ve been through, you continue to be strong for so many people. It’s…it’s incredible.”_

_Blake allowed herself to smile, if only barely, as she brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Incredible’s a strong word.”_

_“Yeah, well, I mean it. And I’m sure everyone would agree,” Ilia told her with a shrug as if the weight of what she’d just said was easy. “You are incredible, Blake Belladonna.”_

_Blake’s smile widened, and she could swear that her pina colada must’ve been a little bit stronger than she’d expected. That small part of her, the one with a resounding citrus aroma and embers of joy and love urged her to take another step forward, urged her to take in the way Ilia regarded her, urged her to keep smiling at the thought of someone else finding her incredible._

_Finding Ilia was easy, and finding her lips against hers was so so wonderful. She kissed her gently, falling back into a haze of torch smoke and the faint taste of liquor on Ilia’s mouth, but the most sensation feeling of all was feeling brave and strong and incredible enough to kiss someone again._

_Blake pulled away, her entire body rattling with newfound liberation, and looked at Ilia from under her eyelashes. Her entire face had shifted completely dark pink, her eyes wide with surprise._

_“You…you kissed me.” Ilia brought her fingertips to her lips as if to double-check the reality of what just happened._

_Immediately, Blake wrapped her arm around her stomach as it roiled and red flags waved in her vision. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”_

_Ilia raised her hands. “No, I just…I didn’t think…wow. Me.”_

_The red flags quickly faded and her stomach began to make room for a flurry of anxious butterflies. Blake caught the flicker of torchlight in Ilia’s eyes, losing herself momentarily in how they seemed to catch the fire. “Yeah. You. I can’t say I expected it either.”_

_“Wow,” Ilia repeated a few more times before her skin settled back to it’s normal shade and the fire dimmed in her eyes; despite that, Blake still felt brave enough to let her gaze settle in hers; it had been so long since Blake had felt brave._

_Ilia furrowed her brow anxiously, once again shrinking into the image Blake knew her best as, the image that had drawn Blake to her before._

_“Did you want to do that again?” she murmured._

_Blake’s smirk was easy, rehearsed, and new all at the same time. “It’s a party. Let’s live a little,” she mused before leaning in to kiss Ilia again._

* * *

Bravery’s a fleeting look on Blake Belladonna. Something she never quite catches when she needs it most, something perpetually darting around her, just out of reach. It possesses her in some moments of levity, or perhaps as consolation from a universe that’s been incessantly wrong to her, and then it’s gone before she has the chance to spend even a fraction of a lifetime in it.

And the thing about bravery is that it hasn’t taken hold of her in almost a month.

Every day is spent jumping at the shadows that permeate her mind—multicoloured beings that torment her with past transgressions and sins and seep through the unfilled cracks in her skin—and every night is spent wondering when she can see inky blackness through the night instead of burning embers dying out against a wash of crimson. There are many nights where every sense is on-edge, as if phantoms await in the shadows of her room and there's so little she can do to stop them from watching her, judging her, asking when she'll give into sleep and give them purchase in her dreams.

Most nights she lies awake instead.

Blake lets her feet dangle over the edge of her bed. She’s barely mustered the energy to complete the transition from day clothes to pyjamas, her night shirt sitting idly on the end of her bed. The longer she staves off changing fully, the longer she can keep herself awake, the less time she’ll have to spend tossing and turning and sweating through her sheets. She stares at the cracks in her skin, unwashed gold gleaming through from beneath, and wonders if they'll ever give her peace of mind.

(She doesn't consider if 'peace of mind' and 'moving on' have any correlation, or she might not be so quick to crave either of them.)

A soft rapping at her window draws her attention away from her own grim thoughts, and she peers over her shoulder to see Ilia standing just outside on the balcony, dim lamplight washing over her in parody of the light Blake had first found her in.

She hardly bothers to finish changing and moves to let Ilia in, wrapping her arms around herself for security.

“You’re here late,” Blake says flatly.

“And you’re still up,” Ilia responds earnestly.

Blake exhales a cold sigh and her shoulders sag. “You know I don’t sleep well.”

“I know.” Ilia’s eyes dart away from her, and for a moment Blake wonders why her demeanour is so much more solemn than she’s used to.

Ilia circles around to her side of Blake’s bed and sits down, taking a few steady breaths as she does so. Blake watches her in confusion, and already she feels every reason she could be here pounding against her heart like stones against brick.

Finally, Ilia speaks up. “I’m going to Atlas.”

Blake nods. She knows the intent behind the words, but she can only try so hard to feel sad for her.

Ilia watches her for a response, and the two share an icy, morose silence broken only by Ilia’s heavy sigh.

“You know I haven’t been back there since I was a child, right?”

Blake knows. She remembers as a child hearing about the mine collapse in Atlas that killed more than twenty Faunus workers. She remembers the heartbreak and mourning that fell over Menagerie, grief blending with anger over such an unfair loss.

She remembers Ilia, young and tired and eyes puffy from crying, finding a new home on the island, and she remembers the crimson that soon seeped into her skin, her own bitter thoughts now reinforced by the honeyed words of a man who took everything from her with a cruel smirk and a red blade and a bullish anger that cut straight through her—

Blake’s head swirls before the blood drains from her, and she sits down to collect herself.

Ilia looks at her, and Blake sees that grief-stricken girl again, her eyes puffy from crying and her skin on the verge of blue and red. “I don’t know if I can go, Blake.”

Blake blinks, hoping that she can muster even a single tear to tell her that she feels anything for Ilia’s troubles right now, but her body runs dry and cold. Instead of sadness and sympathy, shadows lick at her mind like a flickering fire, and she blinks again at the realization that she doesn’t feel much of anything right now.

“Do you think,” Ilia begins, slowly and carefully, “this is one you could take? Please?”

There’s a chill at Ilia’s proposition. Atlas is cold, or as far as Blake knows, and it’s full of bitter truths and realities she can’t handle. Not right now. Not when shadows and crimson and gold clash in her mind and exhaust her beyond anger and sadness.

General Ironwood had taken things into his own hands that day. That day where Blake’s tears ran dry but she kept crying anyways, that day where she felt the sun on her skin for the last time before it went out forever. That day, that day where Blake’s life felt like it had ended, and everything thereafter was emptiness as she grasped at the only small flecks of life she could touch, no matter how short they lasted.

Atlas is not a friendly place for Blake, not when she knows Weiss is there, waiting for the day Blake will find her again.

(Finding her again means things are better, and Blake is certain that things can never be better.)

Atlas is not a friendly place for Blake, not when she knows the sun set there, connected to tubes and wires in the hopes of reigniting its dying flame.

Blake can’t go to Atlas.

“I can’t.”

Ilia’s brow furrows. “Because of Weiss?”

“Because of a lot of things,” Blake says.

“Blake,” Ilia says airily, “it’s been two years.”

Blake’s body seizes, and it’s like her heart malfunctions just long enough for the shadows to slip through the cracks and lash out with a harshness she’s not even sure she had in her.

“You don’t know how it feels.” Blake’s teeth grit at the end of the sentence, her lungs flaring to take in sizzling breaths, and by the time the shadows recede and she realizes what she’s said, she doesn’t know if apologies will even be worth it.

Ilia stares at her, her eyes wide and aghast. “I don’t know how it feels?” she echoes. “I don’t know how it feels to lose someone I love? I don’t know how it feels to grieve and cry and be angry at the entire world? Or do I not know how it feels to not even know how to cry anymore because it’s all I’ve done for weeks?”

“Ilia…”

“Blake, I know _exactly_ how it feels. I might be the only person you know that knows how it feels!” Ilia’s clutching the bedsheets now, and the freckles on her shoulders and cheeks begin to lose their colour.

They sit in silence as Ilia settles herself with the same steady breaths she once taught to Blake in this very room. Blake wishes she could offer the same comfort Ilia offered her so long ago—she wishes she could want to feel that way—but all she can think is how she isn’t enough. Brave enough. Understanding enough. Ready enough.

Blake remains silent, and it’s cold and plain; Blake wishes it were anything else.

Finally, when it seems like Ilia’s collected herself, she stands. “I think I should go home and get some rest.”

Immediately, Blake’s hand darts to Ilia’s as her mind comes up with every excuse to keep her close. The weight of loss pulls at her heart like a boulder, and she doesn’t know if she can handle another.

“Stay,” Blake pleads, and it’s all for herself. It's all for herself when Blake is so desperate to grasp for these bits of life that flick the faintest of colours onto a blank canvas. It's all for herself when Ilia's cold bounces between cold and warm, on days where Blake doesn't know quite how to feel, but her touch is at least there. It's at least _something_ , and Blake fears how it could feel to lose more when she's lost so much.

Blake's fingers curl tighter around Ilia's fingers despite how cold she feels.

Ilia looks down at her hand as her lips purse in thought. Then, she pulls away, and Blake’s heart plummets.

“Goodnight, Blake.”

With that, Ilia steps towards the sliding doors of Blake’s balcony, and any remnant of Blake’s essence follows. In that moment, everything becomes difficult. Breathing is a chore. Crying is near-impossible. Only a maelstrom of shadows whirls inside of her, and she succumbs to it as she falls back against her bed, another restless night ahead of her.

Blake’s skin is full of cracks, like broken porcelain waiting to be filled.

(Filling the cracks means she has something to cover.)

Blake’s mind clashes with crimson and gold.

(Forgetting the crimson means abandoning the gold.)

Blake’s heart is leaden and her mind is blocked by a thick fog.

(Finding what’s on the other side of that fog only leads to more pain.)

Blake finally finds sleep at three in the morning, and it’s with tears staining her pillow and her mind swimming with the scent of citrus.

* * *

_“Yang!”_

_The word, the name, the lifeline, burst from Blake’s lips, desperate to reach with her words as Adam’s attack rapidly approached. Yang was already rushing towards her, and Blake would never be able to forget that expression on her face: worry stretching her mouth into a grimace while her eyes shifted anxiously between furious red and tearful lilac, both swirling together as they fought off tears._

_It was the last time Blake got to see that perfect shade of purple in her eyes._

_She felt the excess of the strike wash over her, sparking energy tumbling in ember-like flakes onto her aura and burning brief holes where they landed. Blake knew all too well the fury behind these strikes, felt the rage unhindered with every tiny morsel of pain._

_But the strike wasn’t meant for her, and that was something she realised all too late._

_Yang._

_The word hung in her mouth, dry, unspoken as much as she wanted to scream it, as much as she hoped she could form a shield around her and close any wounds with it. The winds screamed around her as they filled the cabin, scraping against her now cold skin, any feeling in her body gone at the sight of the woman she loved on the ground, crimson streaming across the gold of her combat outfit._

_Yang._

_Lying still as if frozen by the frigid northern air; even her wild mane seemed stiff against the metal floor, stained with flecks of red that she had to believe were only the remnants of Adam’s attack and not the spatter of blood from an unseen wound. These flecks persisted on her jacket and in small droplets on her ear and neck where normally the only spots she’d see were the delicate freckles dancing across her skin._

_Blake stepped closer again, her head light and heavy at the same time, her throat clenching around a scream she wanted to think would be unwarranted. She wanted to think that she wouldn’t need to scream, that what she was seeing was only an exaggeration of reality—a hallucination brought on by the stress of such an unforeseen encounter, though she understood with each blink she dared the reality of what she was seeing wasn’t exaggerated at all, and that scream only grew tighter in her throat._

_Yang._

_Blake could only manage to squeak out the beginning of her name as she took her final step towards her. Her tongue rolled cautiously around the ‘y’, scared that disturbing the air around her might disturb the moment suspended in time, might cause reality to catch up to them, might cause crimson to keep seeping out of the space where her arms should have been and from the deep gash splitting across her jaw and up across her cheek—_

_“Yang!”_

And it’s the most painful word in the universe.


End file.
